Run
by kimmiesjoy
Summary: She's breathing hard, so hard it hurts. Breathing like she's still running.
1. Run to you

**A/N: **This story I blame completely on Indie for sending me sad songs and for theorizing the concept with me late one night!

* * *

It's about three a.m when she arrives.

Out of breath from running, tired, no sleep since she heard and somehow it's three a.m. It doesn't make a difference, not here, the halls are still bright. Too bright for her exhausted eyes.

The short elevator ride brings her to the right floor, the quiet call of the night shift both new and familiar, but not a comfort.

Nothing is a comfort.

They ask her name at the desk and as soon as it leaves her mouth the younger woman shakes her head.

She has to flash her badge - it's nice to know it has some uses - the woman's still adamant though, still shakes her head and points to her forms as if a piece of paper will stand in the way.

She doesn't even try to contain the rage within her, voice dropping to a hiss and she growls. When that doesn't work she pleads, begs. It makes no difference. The head shaking starts again.

They need consent. Her names not on the list.

Not on the list.

It bubbles under her skin and she can't take it, she's running on empty, but she's still running.

It itches at the underside of her skin, behind her eyes in the recesses where sleep has yet to reach.

Six weeks is all it took for her to not _be_ on the list.

She ran and now...now she's running out of time.

She gets mad, threatens to make a call - wake up the whole damn city if she has to - she knows people, people in high places and she throws out a name she never thought she'd use. Her fist slams into the desk and they have to tell her to be quiet before they finally relent.

She's breathing hard, so hard it hurts. Breathing like she's still running.

Dark eyes follow her as she moves, bag and coat and badge in hand, they remind her it's against protocol to do it without consent from the family.

She is family, she blurts, ignoring the pity when she corrects herself. Will be.

Six weeks.

Will be family, she blurts again, will be, even if she's not on the list.

She pulls the chain from her neck, thrusting it into their faces so they can see. See the ring.

She is family, she is.

Will be.

Can they just hurry up? Move faster dammit.

Their eyes meet behind the desk and the younger of the two starts to speak. The other one, grey hair, soft smile and kinder eyes, drops a hand to her arm and she falls silent.

Without speaking she gestures, _follow me_.

Finally.

It's a short walk to the room, she tries not to sprint, her feet echoing on every step, heavy heels falling loudly and she feels the glare as she passes the desk. Young eyes not understanding, missing the importance.

They stare through her. She lets them.

She doesn't care anymore.

They reach the door and it takes only a look to get the older woman to leave. The cut of her eyes is vicious in silence and serves its purpose, narrowed, focused and determined.

Broken.

Grateful.

Her hand closes on the handle and a breath shudders through her before she steps across the threshold and into another place altogether, into an eerie quiet. Too quiet.

For him there should be no silence and, as if the universe agrees, a mechanical hiss fills the room, a beep following it almost immediately.

It's the wrong kind of noise though and her knees buckle when she sees him.

Coat and bag and badge hitting the floor, cell and keys too, a loud harsh sound breaking the bubble of quiet that surrounds him and she stumbles, throwing herself forwards.

It hurts when she collides with the bed. Her hands land on his feet as she tries to catch herself, she flinches at the contact.

The burn of it hits her square in the chest, worse than the ricochet pain of a bullet, straight to the center. Hot and heavy, cloying, choking pain slams into her ribs and she navigates the bed with broken eyes locked on his face.

Heat simmers, locked away somewhere behind her pupils, white fire scorching her from the inside out and she touches the tube that runs under his nose. Her fingers trace the edge of his lips, his jaw and his eyes as tears fall from her own.

She took the call at her desk, the shock hitting her as she rose quietly to her feet, her cup falling from her fingers. A hot cascade of coffee and the crack of ceramic on tile ignored as she gasped down the phone line.

They called her and she ran.

_A splintered cry._

Ran without looking back.

_Her stuttered choking sob drawing the eyes of people who should feel like family - but don't._

She ran.

They called and she ran, she will always run. For him.

His chest rises and goosebumps erupt across her skin, the machine clicks, hisses and his chest falls, almost in time. Her hand hovers over his sternum, chasing the beat of his heart where it sits, trapped and not wholly his, not really hers either.

Waiting.

His voice is a ghost in her head. Whispered remnants of the night before - god, only the night before - flood her mind. She was going to miss another weekend with him, stuck at work.

He was coming to her instead.

_Stop running yourself ragged, Kate._

She'd laughed, made a joke about him chasing her. He said he liked chasing her.

She'd whispered back, dark, teasing and stealing his breath on a gasp, she isn't running anymore.

She lied.

"I run." She whispers, bringing his limp fingers to her chest and holding them over the frantic beat of her heart.

Like proof.

She lifts his hand to her mouth, presses her lips to his knuckles. She holds on tight, tugging the chain and ring from around her neck, wrapping the warm metal around their joined hands. "I run for you."


	2. Running backwards

**A/N:** For those that asked there are four chapters all together, baring some minor tweaking they are all written. Thank you for reading. :)

* * *

He has the ticket and the keys, both sets tangled together on one key-chain because now they have two. Not _his_ and _hers_, but _here _ and _there_.

Home _and_ home away from home.

Six weeks and he has both sets.

He smiles. He's late, cutting it fine and he's forgotten something. But he has the keys. The phone and his wallet. He has a bag too. She's going to tease him about the bag. It's only a two day visit and it's a pretty big bag.

She's going to tease him. He's going to enjoy it.

He's missing something though.

The thought nags at the back of his mind, it dashes to the forefront, makes itself known until he can ignore it no longer.

He's forgetting something.

Must be.

But he's late and he just wants to run the distance from here to where she is. Let his body feel every second of it as the miles fade and they get closer and closer. Let the palpitating rush of excitement chase his heart right out of his chest.

He misses her.

It has been three weeks. Three weeks too long. It's time to run.

He's packed way too light but it's only for the weekend and whatever he's missing he can do without for two days. Hopefully. The large bag just happens to house a few items he plans to leave dotted around the apartment. Just enough that she gets the picture. That she's reminded when he has to fly back on Monday.

The distance is temporary.

But he hovers on the threshold giving his mind a few seconds to remember what he's forgotten. Seconds he doesn't want to spare waiting around when he could be on the move. But there is something...

Nothing comes. No sudden flashes of memory, no revelations. No shining light pinpointing what he's missed.

Dammit. Enough.

The door slams loudly behind him but it doesn't matter, he has the ticket and that is the most important thing. The most important thing aside from seeing her.

Seeing her, touching her, kissing her, hearing her voice in person. Seeing her eyes react.

His feet pick up speed then. He runs the length of the hall and catches the elevator doors before they close.

It's been too long.

Three weeks since he saw her, six since she left and he can't do another weekend apart, another day of them missing each other.

But that's why they have the keys, why he's going to surprise her and tell her he's moving.

He almost gave it away on the phone.

Running his mouth off as soon as she said she missed him. He only just managed to pull himself together.

She sounded pleased when he called, tired but happy and he's brimming with it. The thought of seeing her flittering away under his skin.

She kept asking if he was sure.

_Are you sure you don't mind? Are you sure you don't have books to write? Errands to run?_

He had teased her mercilessly, said_ she_ was the only _errand_ he wanted to _run_.

She asked if he thought that was sexy? It wasn't.

He said he could make anything sound passionate, hot, amorous. And yes sexy.

She'd laughed at amorous. Dared him to prove it. He said he would as soon as he arrived.

He heard the chink of metal against the phone in her hand. He knew she was playing with the ring, the chain slipping easily between her fingers.

And yes he was moving.

And yes, yes, yes he was_ sure_. Of moving, of taking that leap. Of running from here to wherever she will be.

More than sure.

And yes, he's sure about this weekend.

It's a short flight and he doesn't mind, doesn't mind at all and he sprints the distance of the lobby, from door to door just to get to her that bit faster.

He smiles and crosses the street to hail the cab.

It hits him the moment he steps off the curb. Her coffee mug. She asked him to bring it and he's left it upstairs by the sink.

He turns on the spot, steps backwards into the road to avoid a bike messenger and the rest...

The rest is darkness.


	3. Race for life

The adrenalin fades to a buzz. An annoyance that keeps her just aware enough that every time something around him clicks or squeaks she startles. Everything she sees in shining clarity, pain and perspective she never ever wanted.

And she's running on empty.

The machines beep and hiss and her fingers sweep the back of his hand. The door closes on the Doctor as she leaves the room and though they spoke - she thinks they spoke - her eyes haven't moved once.

Trained on his face, she tries to make sense of the words. The Doctor must have spoken because she knows things now, things that should make sense but don't.

He was hit by a _car_.

The knowledge burns a path from her chest up to her eyes, simmering vivid heat that stings and blurs her vision and she leans in closer. A band twists and weaves its way around her middle so she has to drag the breath into her chest.

God it hurts.

Her feet itch, toes flexing in her heels, she needs to pace, needs to run the length of the corridors, needs to do anything other than sit and stare and wait.

He was hit by a car.

She needs to not move from his side or let him out of her sight.

Three broken ribs. A hairline skull fracture and probable concussion. A broken arm - not the one she's currently clinging to - that had to be reset in the O.R and bruising. Head to toe bruising.

From being hit by a car.

There is a thin scar just under his eye, two stitches almost invisible but she focuses on them, her eyes drawn to the thin red line.

Her elbows rest at his hip, lifting his hand slowly, trying not to pull or tug something she shouldn't, her fingers sweeping and brushing over his wrist.

A broken arm and concussion from being hit by a car.

She drops her head and feathers her lips across his knuckles, mumbling words in silent prayer over his skin. Her eyes close and the burn behind her lids ignites, fire tears, hot and stinging, in a lava cascade that fall over her cheeks.

Droplets pitter pat onto his knuckles and she lets her lips linger there, drawing her sorrow from his skin.

She's thankful it's not worse, it could have been so much worse. Now she has to wait. Sit and watch for any sign that he's about to wake up and open his eyes.

Wait.

Just wait.

She needs to move, needs to do something but there is no force on earth that could get her to relinquish his hand.

His beautiful Hand.

It dwarfs both of hers and she can't let it go.

He flexes his fingers in sleep and, even as hope shoots through her veins, she's selfish, she doesn't let him stretch far. She brings his hand back to the cocoon of her own palms and gently untangles the chain, slipping the ring onto his thumb until it's squeezed tight over the knuckle.

It won't go further than that but it's far enough.

It's symbolic and fitting and it means they will be fine. Everything will be fine if he holds the promise of their future in his hands and she bears the weight of it all within her own.

Together.

She knots the chain loosely, tethers them once more. And they will be fine.

She breathes hard, hot, heavy, air leaving her chest and painting his skin in moist swirls. She lifts up, presses closer and her legs ache, but nowhere near as badly as her heart. It throbs through her chest.

He was running. To her.

Her lip is raw, teeth gnashing down on it, shredding the skin and she won't relent, going over and over what she knows now. Trying to make sense of it.

It was an accident. A stupid accident. He's been in more danger in the five years he spent shadowing her than in the six weeks since she left and now - now - is when he gets injured.

Running to her.

She blinks, fights the urge to move, fights the tired pull of her body as it tries to give in and rest, and she watches the clock instead.

She's been here for an hour and he's asleep, it feels like a lifetime.

Long minutes drag ever slower the more she watches them and she tries to keep her eyes open, keep her body from listing into the warmth of his palm, the soft familiar smell of his skin. Even tainted by the flare of anesthetic and blood his scent is still a comfort.

He's always a source of comfort.

Her nose skims his thumb, lips fluttering lightly. Inhaling and trailing kisses.

She tries to stay awake but she's running on empty. Running on the burnt off remnants of adrenalin and the continued all consuming, raging, wildfire burn of fear.

It's her fault.

She rests her cheek against the back of his hand and brings his thumb and the ring to her lips, kissing both. Promises kept, promises that will never ever be broken, because she will be family - next of kin forms will change in time and her name will reside where it should on that piece of paper - she is family.

But it's still her fault.

He was running to her. Racing to spend the weekend together. To make up for the time missed.

She was going to tell him when he arrived. Make it a surprise, a good one this time.

He was running to her.

And it's her fault he didn't know.

How could he? He's not a mind reader.

But his frantic dash to her wasn't needed. He didn't know that she had changed her mind.

She was moving back.

He was running to her and she was planning on coming home.


	4. Finish line

A/N: Thank you for taking this odd little journey with me, for reading, reviewing and alerting. And to Indie for the ... things! :)

* * *

The darkness is consuming, it surrounds him, pain filters in from time to time but mostly it is just the long stretch of shadow falling over him. But then the light comes.

The light petrifies him.

When the light comes, he runs.

He lurks in shadows, in the recesses of his mind, in the safety of pitch and the absence of light, he waits. He hovers, lingers and listens intently, aimlessly seeking some source of salvation.

The light comes again and he hears her voice.

He turns, confused by the snow white blindness but he runs, racing towards the sound of her. Safe, her voice feels safe.

Like home. So he follows.

She lurks in shadows, in shade and darkness, and the pull of her voice, sad and sweet, tugs him further. She makes him feel _safe _ and he runs, straight into the comfort of the all encroaching black.

But the light keeps coming for him.

He hears her voice, the peaceful ripple of her voice, again and again, the siren call echoing around his head. Her words on repeat.

_"Run."_

He does, for her, for them, from the light nipping at his heels.

_"Run."_

He chases shadows.

_"Run."_

It's the first thing that breaches the confines of the darkness, her broken voice calling to him, and it pulls him steadily into the room with her.

He slips past unconsciousness, gathering his wits slowly until he tumbles, on fluttering lashes and stolen heartbeats, into the safety of shadows and _life _ and the darkness of a hospital room.

_"I run for you."_

Her voice.

It trickles like honey and silk through his mind, soft whispers of love and devotion, heartfelt pleas. Her lips brush his knuckles and make him aware of his fingers. Of her fingers wrapped within his own, he can feel them.

For a while they are the only thing he feels.

Her fingers, and her voice.

He tries to open his eyes but his eyelids continue to flutter aimlessly and the brightness, once blinding, begins to recede. It lingers though for a few moments longer than it should and paralyzes him. Like a rabbit in the headlights, like a deer like a -

Her fingers squeeze his own and the light dissipates once more, darkness at the edges coming back, coming back slowly so he can breathe.

Something warm touches him. She sweeps his face, whispers and touches and soft caresses all. Her voice calls him away from the light and he stumbles into the darkness his eyes opening wide.

The hospital bed is still bathed in middle of the night shadow, a haven, a cocoon of peace that he slips into with more ease than he should.

She's here.

Consciousness comes in waves. Lapping at toes that don't move properly, tickling eyelids that are heavy when they lift and washing over him so that he's finally, truly aware of her.

Not just the idea of her, the fragmented pieces that weave their way through his mind, not just the press of her fingers or the disjointed call of her voice. He becomes aware of _her_, the woman he _loves_, quiet by his side.

Fingers tangled in his. Heart tangled up with his too.

She ran.

He breathes out a sigh of relief, of pain for the worn look of exhaustion that lays on her heavily, a sigh of simply being.

She's here.

She came home.

Her hair is a curtain that covers her face and her fingers cling to his. Tight. The warmth of her cheek pressed against his hand and she sleeps. It's fitful and though he wants to cradle her to him, to fall into her, for the moment he wants nothing more than to watch her, to let it sink in and to believe.

She came home. For him.

She flinches when he moves.

He pulls her out of sleep with the tug of his fingers, a groan and hiss of pain that rise up through the cloud of medication he can feel settled over him like fog.

His fingers catch at her wrist and she startles upright, his hand and hers still tangled together by unbreakable promises, chain links that circle their fingers and keep their palms pressed together.

He follows the tug of metal that wraps around his hand, the squash of her fingers between his own and he sees her ring resting on his thumb, he can feel it too.

"Castle?"

His eyes are wide, shining too brightly in the dim overhead light in a way that lets her know he's been awake for a while. She swims in his vision and it's not from dizziness or pain or anything other than the joy at seeing her again, rising up from within and springing into his eyes until they shine with tears.

"Kate, you're here." His voice croaks and breaks around the words but there is no disbelief in them, just love.

Tears fall and drip on their clasped fingers, pouring from her eyes and she can't stop them. Doesn't want to now. She gives them up gladly as payment for his safe return.

His body rises in the bed and she moves forwards, their tangled fingers a hindrance, a heartfelt reminder, a symbol and he pulls them into his lips, his eyes wide. _"I run to you." _ He reaches, shaking fingers lifting from the bed, his other hand reaching to where she stands as he tries to explain, " I heard-"

He takes a shuddering breath, pulling her to him and gives over his words in awe, "I heard you."

She nods, understanding immediately, understanding only too well because she's been there herself, heard his voice in her head when she shouldn't have, when she needed him most. Her heart beats faster against the wall of her chest, the only wall between them anymore and she weeps quietly, so grateful that her voice found him somewhere in that coal black blur of unconsciousness.

She quiets him when he tries to speak again, tipping her forehead into his, with the press of her fingers over his lips, quickly replacing them with her kiss. Her lips part over his, warm, soft and full of the promises they will keep.

Family.

He sighs, "Tired." His voice barely a whisper, but she hears and she laughs, for the first time in what feels like years, relief sudden and stark as it strikes at her, she laughs.

She cradles his face with one hand, the other still tangled with his, their ring trapped, safe, in between them. "Sleep." She kisses his forehead, laying their joined hands over his heart as his eyes close. "We can stop running now."

**The End.**


End file.
